


All About Love

by kath_ballantyne, treasuredleisure



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bottom!Erik, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prostitution, art with fic, references to rough sex, rentboy!Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kath_ballantyne/pseuds/kath_ballantyne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/treasuredleisure/pseuds/treasuredleisure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants a comfortable night, enough money to last him a while, and a distraction from the grueling monotony of his life on the streets.</p><p>But the kind man in the alleyway gives Erik something he needs the most; something he never thought he could ever obtain.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	All About Love

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE thank you to my betas, [velvetcadence](http://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcadence/pseuds/velvetcadence), [ang3lsh1](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lsh1), and [indusnm](http://indusnm.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Also, thank you to [kageillusionz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kageillusionz/pseuds/kageillusionz) to whom a special member of this fic is dedicated. (Yes, you guessed it.)

This is it then, he thinks. This is it, this is all it is.  

 

And really, it could've been worse. 

 

Despite the insistent throb of a welt on his back, and the familiar deep ache that slowly penetrates his spine, he's one hundred dollars richer than he was yesterday. 

 

In the end, he must convince himself that that's all that matters. 

 

He pinches The Man's shoulder, watches pink skin flash pale and then fade again, without seeing any signs of wakefulness. Satisfied, he slips from beneath covers cautiously, an art he's mastered over the years, and lands on his feet.  

 

He's conveniently still in his socks. The Man had had a substantial disdain for bare feet, and had cried after orgasm. Erik had tried not to take it too personally. 

  

He slides each leg into his jeans, tugs on his shirt, and puts on his jacket as he tucks his feet into his combat boots. He gropes for the wad of cash in his front pocket and pats it once before he leaves through the bedroom door. 

 

::: 

 

Outside, the air is frigid, cold in the way that makes his breath come out as stark white clouds against the dank night. 

 

The brick walls bracketing the alleyway comfort the sides of his vision with their unchanging, uniform design. One brick after the other, one brick over the other. Colours change, structures and textures change, but the wall is still an upright and strong barricade. 

 

He doesn't realise he's ramming face-first into another person until he feels his breath catch sharply, and his shoulder sting with collision. The other man, far burlier and more ominous than himself, doubles over as he mutters out vivid expletives.  

 

The bigger man looks like he hasn't skipped a meal in his life, Erik looks like he could do with a few -- it's easy to identify who's at the advantage, between them. 

 

"Stop!" A shout rips out of Erik when he realises what the other man is pawing for on the ground. "Hey, hey! Stop! Hand it over!" 

 

Steadying his heel, he reaches forward for a grip of the man's collar, but only succeeds in grasping cold air.

 

The other man sets off in a sprint, hands clasped together around the money as he tosses Erik the occasional look from over his shoulder. He slows down when he sees Erik yards away, folded in half, and rasping for breath from the chase. 

 

He hollers cheerfully about his victory from a safe distance, his imposing figure now just a small, dark silhouette. Erik simply gasps for another breath and bolts after him again.  

 

::: 

 

Even though most of his nights are occupied with everything _but_ sleep, he still dreams. He dreams of warmth and wool, and of depthless, unconditional comfort. 

 

But for now, he'll brave the cold and wait. He places the cigarette back in his mouth and leans against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankles and his gaze ducked despondently low. 

 

 

::: 

 

A charismatic man named Klaus had been one of his first johns.  

 

Back then, at the green age of nineteen, Erik hadn't known that a twenty-dollar offer was insanely insufficient for the numerous hours he had ended up losing to the older man's satisfaction **.** He couldn't help it; sleeping with married men made him uneasy, especially when evidence of their marital status wasdecorated around the house ~~'~~ s’ walls and surfaces. He'd be waiting for the door to slam open and reveal a dishevelled wife, face streaked with runny make-up, mouth curled with disgust for the boy who sells his body for a fuck. No, the anger would all be on him. His proposition, his body, his fault. He'd be envisioning it all in his head, as he'd be held down on the bed, arms behind his back. Sometimes the visions gained colour, just to steer his mind to focus elsewhere: The Wife would have pearls around her neck, and the dark lipstick on her mouth wouldn't have gone far. She'd curse at Erik, remind him of his lowly position, and really -- most of the time, it would be apt. 

 

It's all fine when it's in his foggy head, but when it had actually happened, it was much less colourful and far more unavoidable; it wouldn't do to cover his ears like a child. To wail and pretend he couldn't be hurt by the names and words he was pretty sure came synonymous with the job title. If not that, what else was he? 

 

Not even worth a cent, apparently. He had stumbled through the snow moneyless.  

 

Happiness, as always, is a luxury he can't afford. 

 

::: 

 

There's a saxophone player who sleeps on the sidewalk.  

 

He and Erik had only conversed once, with Erik persuading him to sell his saxophone instead of playing it aloud, while the other man shook his head and curled his arm around his instrument protectively. Erik was suddenly too distracted by the dirt caked in the man's fingernails, the sharp shadows his cheekbones cast, the tattered, abhorrent state of his clothes – he didn't immediately catch on to the bigger picture. 

 

This homeless man, who had nothing but a sax and a Styrofoam cup with three lonely coins, would rather starve than sell. 

 

Erik is the exact opposite, and yet — every time a passer-by dropped a coin in his little cup, the saxophone player had been so elated, that he couldn’t even wipe the smile off his blown up cheeks when he played. 

 

Erik isn't as talented as the man. He can't muster a smile for anyone who pays him, because it doesn’t mean he's being admired. It just means he's being used. 

 

The saxophone player who sleeps on the sidewalk at least sleeps in peace. Erik doesn't even know what peace is.  

 

The saxophone player is better than Erik, but he only has three coins in his cup. 

 

Not for the first time, Erik muses over his disdain for the world.  

 

::: 

 

The sight of an approaching man has him drawing himself to his full height, his eyes pinned and narrowed at the man in the trench coat. 

 

He does a double take, conflict swimming in his dark eyes, before ambling over to him. 

 

Erik puts out his cigarette and gives him his best sales pitch, lets his gaze wander, and then follows him home. 

 

::: 

 

It's noon, and he's exhausted. 

 

The Man in the trench coat had been ruthless, but paid him handsomely, so Erik doesn't know why he feels so much sorrow when he wakes up this morning.  

 

He could've had it worse, he reminds himself. 

 

A few more clients,  another two hundred dollars, then he can afford a bedsit for a month. If he can secure some clients by tonight, he could pay the deposit tomorrow, and the room would be his within the week. Sure, he'd have to cut back on food money, but accommodation is his priority.   

 

As expected, the bar is mostly vacant at this time of the weekday. His eyes do a brief scan of the abandoned booths before he leaves, suddenly realising he'll need to limp in order to avoid the pain shooting up his calf. Every step reminds him of The Man’s feral desire—the inexorable way he had been taken last night, with no gentle regard or consideration for the strain on Erik’s body.

 

The hobble isn't going to lure or attract, he thinks sourly. He adjusts his stride, straightening his spine as he crosses the street to his alleyway, where nobody awaits. No returning johns, no newly intrigued customers. Nobody but a tiny, mewling puppy.  

 

He sighs and leans against the wall, hearing his breath come out loud and uneven in the air. He tries to steady himself, but he feels his body sliding down the wall and landing on the ground, one leg stretched out in front of him.  

 

The puppy mewls again. Erik heaves another, shaky sigh, before turning to look at the passers-by.  

 

He wishes he has the capability to look at another person without wondering how best to proposition them. He lacks the talent to entertain. He couldn't afford college, never learnt how to make friends, and rejects the money he hasn't _earned_. He has a sharp mind, but nobody cares. His parents had lived owning nothing, and died owning nothing.  

 

And as far as it goes, he needs to be cared for just as much as that tiny puppy quietly figuring out how to get back home on its stubby little legs. 

 

::: 

 

It's almost evening, and he's running out of luck.  

 

His best guess is because he'd fallen asleep against the wall, on the uncomfortably hard ground. He'd woken up to the sight of two nickels sitting on his chest. He tucks them into his pocket with the saxophone player in mind. 

 

The sky is purpling, and no doubt the bruises on his ribs are too. Hopefully they'd be ignored, the way his worryingly sharp hipbones often are. That is of course, granted that he'll actually make it under a roof tonight. 

 

It's starting to rain. 

 

The puppy's ears flop down, as though it's trying to cover its eyes.  

 

Erik is dusting himself off and sitting up straight against the wall when a rabid corgi bolts around the corner to the alley, its leash trailing from its neck, and comes to a halt at where the tiny puppy is. The corgi sniffs expansively, wagging its tail in the excitement of discovery. He barks a greeting at the puppy, his tongue left to hang out. It shares a glance with Erik, then looks back at the puppy, with one paw poised in the air.  

 

Then comes the owner.  

 

The man beckons aloud, rounding the corner to the alleyway as well, pausing to crouch over the dog. The bigger one – though not by much – barks enthusiastically as the dog man regains his grip on the corgi's leash with haste. 

 

Erik tries to stand; he supports himself with a hand planted on the wall behind him and tries to prop his good leg up, then lifts himself shakily until he can firmly root his feet on the ground and stand. He stifles the wince of pain and wonders if this man with the dog will find it even moderately sexy if Erik staggers over to him. 

 

When the dog man stands from his crouch, graceful and slow, Erik notices the fat wallet in his jeans' back pocket.  

 

The rain, the noises of acknowledgement shared between the dog and puppy, the pain in his leg – all suddenly fade out. He begins to consider how effortless it would be to stretch a hand and slip the wallet out of the dog man's pocket. Nobody would even have to take their clothes off.  

 

Erik bravely shuffles closer. Rain seeps into his hair, and the dog man's. Erik swallows. 

 

His hand comes forward, head turning to look around for any people watching from the adjacent street. Nobody. It's just them and the dogs, Erik's hand and the wallet, a cosy home and food-- 

 

Then, of course, is when the dog man turns around. His rain-wet hair whips across his forehead, droplets of water dripping down to settle in his lashes. Erik's eyes are immediately drawn to the wide smile on his face, the hand of his in the air now rock-still.  

 

"Hello, there! Is this little puppy yours, by any chance?" 

 

Erik's hand drops. He sucks in a breath and starts to nod his head then _shakes_ instead.  

 

Steadying his pulse, he chokes out, "No. No, not mine." 

 

"Oh, of course not," the man's eyebrows knit and Erik’s focus shifts a little as he realises that the dog man he’d been close to thieving is extremely handsome. And it’s an alarming realisation, because it’s been a while since he could say that about a man, not to mention the men he meets in alleys like these. This is indubitably different, but he has still has to treat it like work; he knows of that desperation now more than ever. 

 

The corgi barks at their feet. Its beady eyes stare at Erik curiously.  

 

“What’s this one called?” he asks vaguely, unsure of how to address the dog, even more unsure of how to sound flirtatious when discussing one. 

 

The dog man mutters something lowly, fumbling with the handle of the dog’s leash. Erik nods thoughtfully, pretending to have understood the inarticulate mumble as a name, but then the dog man clears his throat and says, “Gandalf.”  

 

The corgi avidly barks again, confirming his name, then stands up on its back feet, placing its front two paws against the man's knees. A small dog for a small man, Erik thinks. Amusement lifts one corner of his mouth into a curt smile.  

 

“So do you know about—” 

 

Another bark from little Gandalf, as he tries to pounce up towards his owner’s back pocket. Erik shares that sentiment; he’s been waiting for the perfect time to grace their mundane conversation with the standard offer, one that he thinks fair to tweak, given the size of the wallet and the sum of his one month advance. But somewhere between the dog’s distraction and his own inexplicable hesitance, the moment hasn't come. 

 

And for a long while, it just doesn't. 

 

"Anyway,” the dog man continues, shooting Gandalf a look of warning. “I was wondering if you know about its owner." 

 

"Not really," he replies. Silence swells, and the closed question is on his tongue, taking all its time to utter itself out. He's willing, so willing, and he's prepared to put aside the pain that lances up his leg in favour of being taken by this handsome dog man with the bulge in his pocket, but every time he thinks about the man's answer, his stomach clenches. The dog man would say no. _Of course_ he'd say no. Then he'd retreat, maybe leave the unattended puppy all alone too, just to add effect.  

 

And Erik would lose this chance: the opportunity to just _talk_ to someone, to have a friendly, untimed conversation about banal, insipid things with this kind stranger who isn't treating him the way he should be. He doesn't even know that this could exist and a part of him urges to know how long until it won’t. 

 

The innocence offered in the dog man’s smiles has the sort of charm that makes the necessity to make money seem shallow in comparison—it would be so painfully unnecessary to taint the pureness of their conversation, it would mean Erik is confined to one perpetual state of mind. Erik wants to talk about the downpour of the rain, the lonely puppy, the way he sometimes likes the smell of wet mud. He doesn't want to talk about poverty, or the issues of being homeless, or how he looks when he's sprawled on some stranger's bed sheets.  

 

Yet would a night spent shivering out in the cold really be worth it, when he should be stumbling in circles, looking for others to pursue? If this man's dog had scampered into a different alleyway to sniff a different puppy, wouldn't Erik be in the midst of reaching his target by now? 

 

But Erik is a prostitute with nothing to his name, he's learnt long ago not to dwell on _what ifs_. The fact that he's undeniably pleased about talking to a man about a stray dog, perhaps, just says it all.  

 

By now, the man has moved to squat next to the puppy again. He worms in a tentative, long stroke and slowly begins to move his hand up to curl a finger next to the puppy's ear and scratch. The corgi’s small tail curls around its rump as he witnesses his owner lave attention on a different creature. 

 

Erik unsteadily steps forward, leaning over the crouched man to watch and inadvertently doubling as an umbrella from the rain. He has to shuffle backwards when the dog man reaches a hand behind himself and plucks out his wallet. 

 

When the man opens his wallet and unravels a coiled up packet of stick shaped dog treats, Erik can’t resist the smile that overtakes his face. These were his riches, then. The small corgi at their heels goes manic with joy, and the puppy dares small sniffs of the air.  

 

It's quite laughable – from what Erik can see, there's no cash in his wallet whatsoever, just a small picture of a grinning couple, and sparse coins that rattle against each other. His indecision is somehow justified, but Erik finds himself caring more about the tiny little puppy who laps at the man's fingers as he tears open a stick. 

 

The corgi woofs for attention, so Erik slowly lowers himself and runs his hand from his round head to his furry neck. Erratic with happiness, he jumps from paw to paw, seeking Erik’s touch. 

 

"I could – I could feed him," Erik offers, emulating the dog man's gesture of scratching under the ear. "He's hungry. I think." 

 

"He just scoffed down a raw egg." 

 

"Oh," Erik chuckles lightly, mirth colouring his cheeks. He moves to sit next to the corgi and narrowly avoids getting whipped by its rapid tail. The rain is starting to stop. Not once did Erik watch the streets for clients. 

 

"Alright, fine, I guess you could," the dog man says, eyes twinkling in the dark as he hands Erik a stick. Gandalf wolfs it down in an instant and Erik smiles, patting his back.  

 

The man is breaking the stick down into the littlest pieces he sets on his palm, and then places his hand under the puppy's nose. It noisily polishes off each piece, until the man's hand is empty and licked clean for good measure.  

 

"Are you going to take it home?" Erik inquires, after hesitating over the question for a long stretch of moments. The man turns to him with a smile. 

 

"It’s too late to take it to the animal shelter, so I'll probably take it home tonight and give it a wash, then take it there tomorrow. It doesn't have a collar," he observes. "But it might be micro chipped. I’ll give the authorities a ring to let them know." 

 

Erik nods thoughtfully and then lets Gandalf climb him. The man chastises his dog, ordering him to get off, but Erik insists it's alright.  

 

The rain has completely impeded when the man rises to stand. Erik's hand pauses from where it’s carding through Gandalf's silky hairs.  

 

"You're going now?" Erik asks, surprised by the novel sound of disappointment in his voice. His hand struggles to leave Gandalf, his eyes reluctant to see anything else but the man's consoling warm smile.  

 

"Yes," the man says, holding onto the end of Gandalf's leash. "But it was lovely meeting you.”

 

Erik's reply is a tight smile. It feels like being abandoned by the salvation he was so grateful for, his only chance to smile now gone, as the dog is tugged away by his leash. Erik looks at the puppy solemnly, thinking of ways to stretch the moment and delay his leave. But he'd never been a quick thinker, and time had slowed down anyway. 

 

"Are you just going to stay here in the cold?" the dog man asks with concern, as he wraps the puppy inside his second coat and presses it against his chest to shield it from the rain. Erik looks at the way the little animal has gone from shivering in the cold to being engulfed with heat. He’s envious of a dog, he realises. 

 

"Me? I'm," he swallows. "I'm waiting for someone." 

 

The dog man looks like he has more to say, but then he simply nods his head and raises a hand to wave. It's true, after all, but the man doesn't look convinced. 

 

::: 

 

He resorts to returning to the bar. After tedious long stares and distant admiration, Erik is approached, and together they head off to a hotel. Erik hides his limp well enough to not gain a remark, or even a raised brow of suspicion. It’s typical for nobody to care.

 

It’s when they get to the room that Erik retreats with his mind. His clothes are being taken off, but he finds all his contentment in recalling the dog man. 

 

The dog man had been half a head shorter than him, though the colour of his eyes did stand out more when he had to raise them to look at Erik.  

 

He’s being touched, but he’s thinking about the man’s enthusiastic way of talking, how he knew how to make Erik feel included, even when he was reproaching his dog. He’s thinking about an open smile and a quiet care for the homeless, lonely rejects that sit on the streets.  

 

There’s a man panting into his ear, but Erik is wondering about whether he’ll meet the dog man again, because one night of being treated with respect isn’t enough – and now that he’s had a taste, he wants for more, no matter how unreasonable his wish may be. 

 

::: 

 

The next morning his leg is swollen. A hot shower helps very little, only succeeding to make the swell darken in colour. He has to catch himself on every surface as he walks, but he’s known this ache before, and knows he’ll eventually heal. He must, because he’s still two hundred dollars short. 

 

Erik had carefully waited until The Man had left before grabbing the proffered tray of fruit and messily consuming each. He’s still half-empty and craving for something heavier as he makes his way down the streets and follows the sound of the silky saxophone tones, almost grievous and doting in the rain soaked morning. Erik remembers the coins in his pocket and he drops them into the man’s cup, trying to go unheard so as not to disturb the man’s ongoing piece.  

 

Without it being deliberate, he’s roaming the streets, more attentive of the whereabouts of the dog man than potential clients. He runs a matchstick along a brick and lights a cigarette, relying on the overpoweringly acrid smoke to cloak his disappointment and distract him from the ache in his leg. It’s now a deep strain in his ankle, a reminder that now makes itself known with every step; he ought to sit down and get himself looked at, rather than saunter from street to street, looking for more people to violate his now, fragile body. 

 

Erik’s supposed to be glad to find a man in want of a blowjob behind the bar, but he can’t deny that he would’ve been happier if the distant mop of dark hair had actually been the dog man’s.  

 

::: 

 

One hundred and seventy, he counts. One hundred and seventy until he’s finally met his target. 

 

He huffs through a clenched jaw, trying to keep his last cigarette wedged between his teeth. His leg is laid out in front of him, its swell difficult to ignore—but Erik is willing to try.  

 

There’s a man in a blue baseball cap watching him from where he stands against the wall opposite, his calm and self-assured demeanour bordering on aggressive and off-putting. 

 

Which, essentially means that Erik has to trudge up to the man and service him, breathing in that arrogant air and pretending it’s delightful. 

 

He prepares himself to stand, spitting out his cigarette and placing two hands flat against the wall behind him. It’s a long, painful trip up, but he keeps his steely gaze locked on the man’s, focusing entirely on keeping the man’s interest and leaving with more money than he has now— 

 

A little dog _woofs_ and dashes through the air, panting excitedly, and collides with Erik’s knees. Its tail flags and flaps as he jumps high to cling for Erik’s clothes, and he’s pulled down by the dog’s weight until he collapses on the ground again. The corgi. The little corgi with its trailing leash begins to lick Erik’s face, and he can only set aside one moment to think about its owner as he laughs uncontrollably at the strange sensation.  

 

Seeing the dog man when he opens his eyes again is a bit of a joy, if he’s honest. The corgi has settled to put his front two paws on Erik’s chest as he listens to his owner gasp out apologies and mutter about _the rubber duck he’ll be confiscating tonight_. 

 

“He has such bad manners, honestly,” the dog man says, collecting the leash again.  

 

“It’s okay,” Erik says, scratching the dog around its ears and smiling the way he hasn’t done since the last time he’d been occupied with a bundle of corgi. “He’s nice.” 

 

“ _Well_ ,” the man doesn’t sound like he agrees, but his grin is fond as he looks down at his dog bond with a stranger. The man tightens his other hand around another leash, and that’s when Erik notices the puppy at his heels. He points a questioning finger in its direction. “Oh,” the man says, tugging the leash forward to reveal the dog behind his leg. “This is our friend from last night.” 

 

Erik tries not to make a big deal of how easily the man has pointed out something he has in common with him—a homeless whore. He smiles and asks, “Did you try and find out about its owners?” 

 

“I did,” the man mumbles, then heaves a pensive sigh and drops down next to him on the ground. It’s not wet anymore, it’s dry and softened by moss in this area, but Erik is still alarmed to have a companion stoop so low just to converse with him about a tiny little dog. “After reporting a missing puppy, I took him to the animal hospital, and they told me to take him to a vet clinic _._ ” He pauses to brush his hair away from his face and let the little puppy fetch the slim toy he’d thrown a few feet away. “So I took him to the vet clinic and they told me he’s not micro chipped, not even neutered. Assuming he’s completely stray, I asked them if they’d like to keep the poor chap, but you know what they said? Take him to the animal hospital.” He shakes his head incredulously. “So I went to the bloody hospital, told them to keep the puppy with them, but they said they’re full, so you’ll have to—” 

 

“Go to the vet clinic?” Erik chimes in, the corgi barking in agreement. 

 

“No,” the man huffs. “They asked _me_ to keep him. Said they’d give him a free check-up and future discounts too.” 

 

Erik nods thoughtfully. He watches the little puppy run up and down the alleyway to fetch the toy and return it to the dog man. He looks lively and energetic, a refreshing change from the shuddering ball of wet fur he was yesterday. “Maybe someone will turn up for him.” 

 

“I highly doubt it. But I can’t keep another dog,” he shakes his head, looking at his corgi distrustfully. “I have enough trouble with him. He chewed on a draft of my thesis. _He chewed on my thesis_.” He looks traumatized. “He only spat out the bibliography.” 

 

“I see,” Erik says absently, transfixed with the spectrum of emotions that grace the man’s face in turn as he speaks.  

 

“I mean—I don’t necessarily think this one will have the same or similar appetite for academia,” he’s gravely serious, Erik notes, “but I don’t know how I’ll be able to handle two dogs. He’s already taken a liking to both me and Gandalf. He just follows us around now.”  

 

And the little puppy is overjoyed. Finally fed, finally cared for and warm and dry—Erik can see why he’d want to be glued by the dog man’s side.  

 

Erik can only imagine how gratifying it must feel, to one day be scooped up into the arms of a kind man and taken to shelter – despite having nothing and no one. If Erik can’t be granted that good fortune, then at the very least, he can ensure this helpless little puppy is. 

 

“But he’s happy to be with you. You should keep him.”  

 

The dog man turns to smile at him instead, a smile that’s both tired and buoyant at once. The man is a mystery to Erik. He’s so much kindness and expression and energy, all wrapped up in a humble, quiet façade. It’s not easy to deduce the heavy emotion that lies in the weary curve of his smile and the lines underlining his eyes—yet at the same time, Erik is aware that he isn’t any less of an enigma himself. He may as well be equally as mysterious in the man’s eyes. In the man’s radiant blue eyes. 

 

“Most of all, I think Gandalf will be appreciative if you do,” he says reasonably, their heads turning at once to watch the dogs gnaw over the same toy.  

 

The man turns back to him with a grin, “You know, it’s kind of fitting that Gandalf likes you.” 

 

“Really?” Erik can’t help but worry over what that implies. “It is? How?” 

 

“Never mind,” the man says, though the smile on his face has yet to disappear, and Erik is yet to take his eyes off it. He’s reaching forward to grab the leash for both the dogs now in his ownership, and Erik feels a sudden rush of panic. “Right, I’m off—” 

 

“You’re going?” 

 

The dog man bites his lip and glances over at where Gandalf has now come over to drape himself over Erik’s legs, victorious with the toy between his teeth. Instinctively, Erik’s hand reaches out to pet him over his light brown fur.  

 

“No,” the man says. “Not yet.” 

 

And then he settles back down against the wall.  

 

The dog man stays. The man in the blue baseball cap has been gone for a whole hour. Erik doesn’t think that he would’ve stopped him even if he had noticed him leaving.

 

::: 

 

Erik is one hundred and seventy dollars short of having a home, but he’s sitting in the alley, talking to a handsome stranger about how the corgi, in dog years, happens to be a good bit older than his size suggests.  

 

Yet when the dog man asks for his permission to leave, Erik knows he should politely let the man say his farewell, rather than beg for a third time. 

 

The dog man knows that he can leave anytime he wants, but he’s still _asking_ and Erik can’t outright tell him to go.  

 

“Twenty minutes,” Erik mutters, watching little Gandalf leap for the stick treat that Erik holds high above his head. 

 

“Please? It’s getting late,” the dog man says, worrying at his bottom lip. “It’s almost midnight and I have work—” 

 

“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “Sit down.” 

 

“I really have to go,” the dog man insists, now climbing up onto his feet. The sound of the puppy mewling is familiar, but Gandalf’s reluctance is far more apparent. Erik doesn’t admit how pleased he is to hear them argue with their owner to stay, despite how flustered the man is getting. Erik winces. 

 

“You don’t... you find me annoying, don’t you,” he decides, and the conclusion is easy to come to: the man is only here because Gandalf had been adamant. If it weren’t for him, he wouldn’t have been here. Sure, they’ve been sitting here for hours, talking, playing with the dogs and feeding them treats, but perhaps the man himself had been loath to stay, and would much rather escape as quickly as he can, now that his politeness is costing him his time. Maybe he’s finally, finally realised – and it had to happen at some point – that spending time with Erik had been a mistake. That he’s _better_ than that. 

 

“Oh, my friend,” the man sighs, and Erik jerks a little when a hand is brought down to his shoulder. He turns his face to the side and glances at the pale fingers that stand out starkly against the dark shade of his jacket. The man continues in a soft, congenial voice, “I do not find you annoying. I quite enjoyed your company tonight. We all did.” 

 

Erik nods his head, knowing that he doesn’t just mean to encompass the dogs.  

 

“Maybe I’ll meet you here tomorrow?” the man turns to tug the dog’s restraint in the direction that would take them away from Erik. “Will you be here tomorrow?” 

 

“I will,” he says quietly. He bends his leg, but a jolt of hot pain courses up to his knee, so he remains down. He glances up sheepishly, “You really don’t find me annoying?” 

 

The man clicks his tongue and pats him on the shoulder again. This time Erik doesn’t flinch. 

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says simply, smiling as he wraps his coat around himself again. When the dog man pins him with a glance, Erik sees heavy, unflappable concern momentarily flicker in his eyes as he very gravely says, “Take care of yourself.” 

 

As alien as that concern is, it’s welcome.  

 

::: 

 

The Man wants to cuddle—he hauls Erik to his side and clamps a fat arm over his waist. Erik very calmly doesn’t scream when he feels his leg catch under the man’s entire weight as he rolls over. 

 

“My leg,” Erik grits out as he pulls it free from beneath the man’s sweaty back. The Man simply grumbles and pulls Erik closer by his flank.  

 

Erik tries to relax, he really does, but The Man has locked him into his embrace, and Erik would much rather put as much distance between them as he physically can, so not to hear him weep.  

 

“My mom _hates_ me,” The Man begins, gutturally sobbing against Erik’s bony shoulder. “She—she… she doesn’t know I’ve been made redundant… and—and…” 

 

Erik rolls his eyes and turns to position his leg more comfortably. He shuts his eyes and does a mental count of how much money he now owns. Somehow, the dog man comes to mind. 

 

And his mind must remember him well, even in the dark, because he seems just as animated in his thoughts as he is in person. Talking with spread out half-gloved hands, widening his blue eyes when reaching a particularly shocking point, laughing with a bowed head and bent shoulders.  

 

Erik falls asleep shortly after.  

 

::: 

 

If Erik could walk, he’d pace. But with his leg still poorly, he settles for leaning against the wall. 

 

He ducks his head whenever someone passes him a curious glimpse of interest. _No, not today_ —he wants it projected over his face. Today he’s reserved. 

 

He smiles at the thought. The dog man must be briskly loping down the street right now, a leash in each hand, a tiny dog by each side.  

 

He hears a familiar bark of greeting and breaks into a grin. Despite his leg, he crouches down to pat Gandalf’s skull and lets his velvety tongue wetly lick stripes up his cheeks. Not surprisingly, his leash trails behind him on the ground as his owner comes sprinting after him.  

 

Erik tries to crane his neck to glance at the dog man, but Gandalf keeps up his obstruction.  

 

“I brought coffee,” the dog man pipes up, in lieu of greeting.  

 

The dog man extends the hand that’s wrapped around a cup of hot, fragrant coffee. Erik chuckles when the pup at his heels bounces forward and his owner smiles at him brightly, as though Erik’s laughter has lit up his world. 

 

::: 

 

Erik hasn’t had coffee since last winter, when he could afford to put some money aside for a beverage. Though this coffee is too sweet for his taste, he sips on it gratefully. The dog man is being too kind—nobody treats him to free coffee and smiles, not unless they pity him. And what does this man know about Erik yet, to be able to pity him? Surely, pity stems from the knowledge of something woeful – like Erik’s entire existence, for instance – and always results in the recipient feeling inadequate.  

 

Right now, Erik feels… content. He feels bundled in warmth, the soft treacle of coffee is soothing on his rasped throat, and his company is not entirely unpleasant.  

 

The puppy is chasing its tail fitfully, often mistaking his leash for his tail and pouncing over it in joy. He has jet black fur, silky like the hairs of a groomed horse, and he’s growing a healthy bulge in his stomach. His ears still flop about in front of his face, though, and there’s not much the dog man can do to prevent that. 

 

Gandalf on the other hand, lounges on his back, indulging in a tummy rub. His owner spreads his palm over his belly and massages him in circular strokes as he lies back with his paws facing the sky. Erik asks to take over in the petting duty, and Gandalf turns to face him, his beady eyes almost comically relaxed. He sinks his fingers into where his fur is thinner and cream coloured and rubs his fingertips gently, eliciting a low growl of satisfaction.  

 

Then there’s the dog man.  

 

If anyone’s entitled to making an assessment of the other, it’s certainly not Erik—he was the one who had intended to thieve the dog man on first encounter, after all—but the fact that the man is spending his evening in a low lit alleyway with Erik, where the temperature isn’t necessarily high, and the view is nothing more than two dogs and a brick wall; it all makes Erik keen on knowing _why_. What is the appeal—because surely a man as friendly and charming as him would make better use of his evenings. 

 

::: 

 

The time comes, as it always must, when the dog man says, “I should probably get going.” 

 

And Erik, who always feels a knot of dread in his gut at the thought of the man leaving him, makes it his duty to ensure the dog man doesn’t follow through and stays a while longer.  

 

“So do you live close?” he asks, watching in satisfaction as the man sinks down against the wall again. 

 

“It’s a bit of a walk,” he shrugs. “But it’s quite lonely these days; my sister’s off on her honeymoon with my best friend, so it’s just me and the dogs at the moment. Not the _ideal_ company—” He throws the corgi a look and Gandalf woofs. “—But you know, man’s best friend and all. Except when they eat my things.” 

 

The puppy – now named Frodo, as announced between gleeful grins that Erik doesn’t understand the root of, but at the very least, enjoyed seeing – slinks down in imitation of Gandalf’s posture. There’s definitely a story there. Erik’s about to tentatively inquire, hopefully prompt another hour of the man’s breathless nattering, when he’s beaten to it. Instead, the man’s question comes, 

 

“So what about you? Do you live around here?” 

 

A minute ago, this unfurling of personal truths would’ve been completely avoidable, but now that Erik has selfishly, _impulsively_ probed at a topic beyond the dogs, he’s stuck at an impasse. It’s only conventional that the man should ask the question in return, presumably to bond over furniture and annoying neighbours and stringent landlords, but Erik has nothing to offer. The dog man lives a fairly normal life with pets and siblings and friends and a career; Erik has none of that. This is going to be where their companionship ends, he realises. His wish to separate the dog man from the grim reality of his life has been a short but sweet one—he’s a fool if he thinks he can lie about having a home. He turns to look at the man, as though for the last time.   

 

“I’m homeless.” 

 

He doesn’t say it gloomily, nor does he say it with his chest puffed out in pride—he says it matter-of-factly, like there’s nothing to it. This is him; Erik isn’t going to lie, and if the dog man suddenly decides that he no longer wants to sit in the alleyway with him, Erik would have no argument to make him stay. So, there’s nothing to it.  

 

It doesn’t mean that Erik isn’t going to be broken when the man clutches the dogs’ leashes and ambles away.  

 

Erik waits and waits for the dog man’s expression to change, but it’s yet to do something other than stiffly stare back. Finally, words stream out rapidly.  

 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” 

 

Erik’s brows arch. “Like what?” 

 

“Like you’re waiting for me to resent you.” 

 

“I…” Erik blinks, looks around at the dogs and then back at their owner. “It’s what I expect.” 

 

“Why?” the man chokes out a laugh. “Does kindness and acceptance surprise you?” 

 

The short answer is yes. He quietly shrugs his shoulder, looking down at his boots. 

 

“That’s… unfortunate,” the man is very carefully choosing his words, it’s blatant to tell. “It shouldn’t.” 

 

Erik studies his shoe in disinterest before turning to look at the dog man again.  

 

“If you pity me, you can go.” He meets the man’s eyes evenly. His nonchalance is a big bluff—but he continues to look impassive as the fear of being left alone swells. “I won’t mind.” 

 

The man doesn’t utter a word, but more importantly, he doesn’t make a move to leave. The air is thick and tense with the lack of movement from the dog man. Slowly, he reaches into his wallet and takes out the dog treats. He wordlessly hands one to Erik, which he takes, after which they quietly proceed to feed the dogs. 

 

An hour goes by, but unfilled with the sounds of the dog man’s ramblings. It’s comfortable for Erik either way—just to know that there’s someone by his side. Then the man heaves a sigh, glances at his watch, and tips his head to face Erik. 

 

“Look… I know I’m trying to make a point by staying, but I really, really need to go now.” 

 

Erik smiles and hands him both dogs’ leashes, a silent permission, as though he has that authority.  

 

The dogs are led away, all licking farewells across Erik’s cheeks, as the dog man stands above them and watches. His leg doesn’t allow him to stand, so he remains down. He has to look up at the man, the man who gives him kindness and acceptance, but to whom Erik can only give a nod in return. 

 

“Tomorrow,” the dog man says above his shoulder, loud and clear into the narrow column of the alleyway, as he tows his dogs home. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

 

::: 

 

Erik wonders how long it’ll be before the questions come. Where does he sleep, how does he earn, what happened that he’s like this? 

 

He wonders how long it will be before the offers are cast upon him. Stay a night at the dog man’s house, let the man find him a place, or take some of the man’s cash. 

 

Every time the man opens his mouth, he braces himself. He’s constructed answers for almost every tempting compromise or timid inquiry he thinks the man could muster. When it turns out that the man has still not asked about how Erik survives being homeless, he doesn’t feel disappointed. 

 

The man is reeling off an anecdote when Erik stops hearing his enthused words in his realisation — that this is what the dog man thinks Erik wants: this respect, this easy balance where Erik doesn’t have to worry about the dog man worrying about him and the dog man doesn’t have to trip over himself trying to be charitable. In truth, what Erik wants is these nightly conversations with dogs and petting sessions and relaxation from stress to never end. Erik hopes the dog man knows that this is all Erik needs, and strives to keep separated from all else. Getting cash stuffed into his pocket is one thing, but seeing the dog man gait towards him with his dog-duo is another, much better thing. 

 

Which is why the man shouldn’t know anything else. Like what he does and where he goes when the dog man waves him a farewell and leaves him alone in the alley. 

 

Ensuring the dog man never finds out isn’t difficult. Erik is doubly careful; his efforts to conceal his ministrations are meticulous. Clients tend to be dissuaded by the dog man anyway, or come back later when he’s gone, and Erik very vigilantly keeps a lookout—not leaving until he’s certain the dog man is far enough to not see him go home with another. 

 

It would change their easy relationship, that he’s sure of. That, he’s fearful of. 

 

::: 

 

He does a cursory check of the bar. Drunks draped over the jukebox, drunks passed out on the pool table, drunks occupying booths in more numbers than the space allows. 

 

One man is staring at him from over his drink.  

 

Erik should be able to walk smoothly by now, but it’s his unwillingness that’s pinning him, keeping him from moving. It’s more difficult to approach as opposed to be approached, but then again, he likes conveying enthusiasm and garnering control. It means he can instigate it at his own pace. 

 

Tonight he’s sluggish; he’s realised that the moments of enjoyment and calm spent with the dog man have been spoiling him. He’s no longer militantly driven to do his deed, he’s too invested in the other part of his life. Counting the hours till he sees the man as opposed to counting the money till he has a home. Smiling sincerely throughout the time he spends with the man and his dogs until the muscles of his cheeks ache, rather than smirking convincingly at the man or woman admiring him across the room. 

 

Still, it’s infuriating. The same person who had once swaddled up a stray dog without complaint is proficiently refraining from letting his generosity spill through to Erik. Erik is thankful for the way the man has resisted all urges to help, but— 

 

Erik can’t deny to himself, that if the man offered, he’d turn down each with a bout of reluctance. The man could pour care and compassion down his throat, but Erik wouldn’t swallow, he’d outright refuse to be the equal of that puppy he’d taken under his wing. Erik wants to be _his_ equal—just another man like him with an affinity for dogs and a preference to kill time with an amiable companion. And while the dog man has a mouth to jabber with, Erik has an ear to listen with. 

 

He shouldn’t be thinking about all this in a bar, while scouring for customers to bed. A sip of the drink set in front of him helps—The Man is clearly interested in Erik, and that should be relieving, but… 

 

He prefers the dog man’s ways. Sometimes it’s a story about his dog’s antics, and other times a brief pat on his shoulder. 

 

Again—he’s back there again. Back in the alley he now associates with memories of laughter. He takes another sip of the drink, slurping and undignified but uncaring, mainly reminding his body of where it is.  

 

It’s not the sociable blonde waitress today, so he ducks his head to face the foam lined golden top of his drink. He knows he should sneak a glance at The Man, but maybe he’s playing hard-to-get-because-his-mind-is-preoccupied. With the thoughts of a crazy, crazy man, no less.  

 

Erik tries not to think too much about how attractive he is.  

 

Now he has to turn his head and look at the buyer of his drink, the possessor of ambitious eyes, The Man who eventually takes him to his apartment and does his utter best to remove those thoughts from Erik’s mind. And fails.  

 

::: 

 

The dog man hands him a coffee and Erik looks away when the other man spots the bruise on his neck. It doesn’t look like its name: a _love_ bite. It looks vicious, more poisonous than zealous. The dog man can’t seem to take his eyes off it. There’s an inner battle swimming inside his blue eyes, debating the question, and eventually, it wins over his resolve. 

 

“Are you alright? You look a bit—” 

 

Then he stops himself and averts his eyes, his face turning away as though it’s been struck. It’s his injury, but it seems to bring the dog man a great deal more pain, and pain he can’t address. Erik should probably tell him that he is alright, but the dog man begins to speak on in an effort to steer the conversation back to dogs. 

 

“Did I ever tell you? –that when we were little, my sister once took my toothbrush to clean our Rottweiler’s teeth, and—” 

 

“I’m alright, you know,” he interrupts. It seems like the apt time to say his name, but he still doesn’t know it. Still, at least he’s more inclined to mentally refer to the man with a ream of flattering adjectives rather than just a birth name. The man ranges from crazy to lovely to beautiful constantly. 

 

“Oh, well that’s wonderful.” At least his shoulders have relaxed, otherwise, he’s still frowning. “That’s very good to know.” He looks remorseful, which makes Erik lament over what kind of fear he’s instilled in the kind man to make him hesitate over a harmless query regarding his health. 

 

“Yes, I’m well. Don’t worry about me.” That should satisfy them both, but the man is terrible at hiding the worry in his eyes. They flicker as though dismissing their evaluation. 

 

“Continue that story please. About the Rottweiler cleaning your sister’s teeth.” 

 

“No, no,” the man actually giggles, and Erik watches him as he slips back into his default, babbling mode. He sits down beside him, their shoulders grazing, and listens to his story as he drinks the hot, too-sweet coffee. 

 

::: 

 

One night the man comes striding into the neck of the alleyway sans his dogs. Erik takes one glance at him and leaps up onto his feet.  

 

“Where are they?” 

 

The dogless dog man raises a brow. “I see where your interests lie.” 

 

Erik licks his lips and shrugs. “I’m not used to seeing you without them.” 

 

He nods, wringing his hands. “I have a meeting with my boss in an hour. Just—I just wanted to let you know. That I – well – _we_ won’t be able to join you tonight.” 

 

Both their eyes droop and study the concrete. Erik should’ve shrugged flippantly by now. He should’ve looked annoyed briefly, then made a comment about how he doesn’t mind. Nothing happens. Erik swallows and lifts his eyes to rake them up the man. His calves, uncovered by his thick, dark coat, suggests he’s wearing a suit. His shoes are polished black brogues, and his hair is perfectly coiffed to one side. He’s put in at least a few minutes of effort, and Erik purses his lips to prevent a snarl from forming on them. The man is perfect already—whomever he’s meeting is obviously someone he’s trying to deliberately impress. It’s disconcerting, the idea of the dog man thinking he has to try harder to please his boss’s eyes. If his boss could just hear him talk, he wouldn’t mind if his employee turns up even in a nightgown.  

 

“What?” the man says softly. Erik’s eyes have been sealed somewhere around his shoulder, unmoving. He drags them away to look up at the man’s questioning face. He has a scarf wrapped around his neck, but Erik can still see a silky, pristine silver tie on a blue shirt. 

 

“Nothing, just—” he takes a step closer to the man and runs his hand down from his shoulder to his chest. “You have some dog hair on your coat.” His fingertips brush over his breast pocket. His lie has been sold, though, as the man parts his lip in surprise and chuckles lowly. There’s a soft vibration, jerking breaths under his palm as he rests it over his shoulder and pulls it down again. Imaginary hair falls off. Imaginary hair stubbornly stays on. He passes his hand down one more time, muttering, “Done,” and smiling at him with thin lips. 

 

“Thank you,” the man says, smoothing a hand down his coat himself. “I’m getting late. I should be on my way now.” 

 

And Erik never knows how to change that; all these nights the man has come and gone, and Erik has always been unable to come to terms with the fact that this man has other commitments too, ones he’s ordained to, and probably even enjoys.  

 

“Have—fun,” he mumbles, convincing himself he means it.  

 

“I doubt it,” the man says, smiling sadly. He tilts his head to the side, pressing his cheek against the wool of his scarf. “Tomorrow, then.” 

 

The man is still self-consciously dusting his coat as he walks away. Erik buys himself a cigarette packet; the itch and burn in his fingers recedes only once his hands are occupied with something else to hold and touch again. He heads straight for the bar where he has a meeting of his own. 

 

::: 

 

The Young Man of about nineteen tells Erik he’s his first, the first man to take his virginity. Erik nods dismissively as he rambles on about how scary it ended up not being. He reminds him a little of the dog man, the way he blathers on without a pause for breath. Sometimes the man’s cheeks would flush, all the way to his ears, and his hands would falter as he would stop and wait for Erik to stop laughing. Sometimes he’d bite his lip, slot the tip of his finger into his mouth, and that would usually shut Erik right up. 

 

He wonders, almost bitterly, what happened to his aim to separate the man from his endeavours.  

 

::: 

 

The bedsit is ready to move into. It’s furnished sparsely, all the bedroom’s components wedged side by side and crammed close to minimise space. It’s been almost an entire six months for him on the streets. The worn carpet, grimy counters and insect-infested walls are difficult to complain about. A place to retreat after a service is more than he can ask for.   

 

Erik should be pleased, but as the landlord informs him of the financial formalities, it occurs to him that he doesn’t know how he’ll be able to afford the rent every month. A desperate calculation tells him it might as well equate to him not getting to sleep here at all. 

 

He curses himself for not being able to find comfort in his solitude anymore. He trudges to the alley, but his dog man isn’t there. It is, after all, only noon. As he’s learned, the dog man is a lecturer of university students, and his day doesn’t finish until the evening. Erik is as familiar with his routine as he is of the sun’s appearances—he’s noted how he only sees the dog man while the sun is out of view. He’s also noted how much he’s come to hate the sight of the sun.  

  

Instead of standing and waiting for the dog man to come to the alleyway, he gets straight to work at the bar. Although he has a place, the amount of time he still has to spend out in the alley or roaming the bar doesn’t suggest he will for long. As relieving as it should be to have one—to know that he can retreat to his own home at the end of a tiring day—it scarcely serves as feeling any different from how his situation had been before. Now, he just has more pressure to accumulate more money, and quicker.  

 

The fact that he still spends his evenings with the man and his lively dogs hasn’t changed. And as long as he wants to ease the stress of his day by being around the man, he doesn’t think that fact ever will.  

 

He eagerly awaits the times he’ll get to see the man; it’s a constant thought at the back of his mind. How long until—wonder if he’ll come—where is he today— 

 

On his part, it’s a dire mistake that he’s let the meetings with the dog man affect him so. He shouldn’t be this invested in someone, let alone someone he hasn’t slept with. Though judging by how often the man crosses Erik’s mind, he might as well have. 

 

The man is gorgeous, there’s no other way for it to be said. Erik has studied him over the nights: his petite form, his modest masculinity, his engaging demeanour and soft but striking features. His voice and words are an addiction in itself. He is rich with beauty, but he also possesses a wealth of knowledge and humour, which is essentially why Erik regularly ends up having to pick himself up off the mossy ground long hours after their initial greeting. Their conversations, their interactions, the man’s general presence around him is what Erik, frankly, lives for. 

 

It is not uncommon for Erik to think of the man when he’s with others. The man often serves as replacement, in the way that one thinks of something pleasant to divert their mind when experiencing something dreaded. Erik could imagine the man taking him, being gentle with him, inside him and above him and around him, slowing down because sometimes Erik craves long-drawn passion, or desperate because Erik has been lying on his back fantasizing about this man for an entire month, and his need for him is incredible. 

 

Yet he doesn’t even know the man’s name.  

 

He slips off the barstool and advances towards the off-duty ticket officer who had passed him a scribbled note on a napkin. As unoriginal as the idea is, he hasn’t asked him for a drink or a date—it’s a frank, crude outline of how he’d like Erik to follow him into the men’s restroom exactly fifteen seconds after he does. Compliant, Erik nods and watches as the tall officer excuses himself from his crowd and blankly lopes to the back.  

 

Erik counts. He loses his number when he realises he’s counting the time until it’ll be the evening and he can escape to the alleyway. After many sets of fifteen seconds he shoots up from his seat and rounds the corner to the back, where he begins to ascend the steps to the restroom. Halfway up, he hears, 

 

“Hello, stranger.” 

 

He smiles, not yet turning around because perhaps the smile is a bit too foolish for show. The sound of the man’s voice is almost thrilling by now, like a burst of electricity all through his veins. It’s also just familiar and calming; he’s the one man whose presence around him is like a gift.  

 

“My name is Erik, by the way.” 

 

He's just offered his name, the one that’s real, and he isn’t immediately regretting it. He slowly ascends the rest of the stairs before turning around to see that the dog man is standing at the foot of the steps, catching up to him at his own speed. 

 

“Erik,” he grins. He looks well, if anything—coloured blue from the denim of his jeans to his suit jacket to, of course, the circular orbs of his eyes. He gets to the landing and stands opposite Erik, as though letting Erik view him properly from where he leans against the wall. He stuffs his hands in his front pockets, and Erik doesn’t even notice himself doing the exact same.  

 

 

 

The man continues, “So it’s _Erik_. All this time it’s been the—” 

 

Erik raises his brows when the man falls short, his sentence left unfinished. An anxious curiosity warms the pit of his stomach. He shuffles his feet, nervous, suddenly. “The what?” 

 

Across from him, the man distractedly straightens his blue tie, then sidesteps when someone leaves through the door of the restroom. 

 

“The… um, well. In my mind, I’d refer to you as a friend. And the handsome alley-man. Interchangeably.” He lets out a small cough. “But Erik is much better.” 

 

Erik doesn’t know what to say that won’t humiliate them both. Comments on his appearance have always been superfluous pillow-talk or a feature of the foreplay that would lead up to it. It always made him feel naked, because he was always naked at the time of receiving such compliments. But it’s not the _handsome_ part that has him feeling swept under the overwhelming surge of his joy, it’s the part that suggests he’s become this man’s _friend_. 

 

Eventually, because the silence has been turning the man’s cheeks redder by every moment it dwells, Erik speaks up guiltily. 

 

“The dog man,” he says with a sigh. “The man with the dogs.” 

 

Said man then sheepishly digs his hands further into his pockets, stepping forward, this time, when moving out of the way for a very flustered, angrily retreating police officer. Too aware of the sudden movement in which the man shuffles in front of him, the officer slips out of his notice.

 

In the light of day, Erik is more pleased to note the clarity of his smile. The dog man steps back, but brings them far closer by finally, finally introducing himself as, “Charles.” 

 

“Charles.” A name has never been this satiating to know, but the knowledge of this man’s is like the puzzle piece he’d been scouring for. Erik brings his hands out of their pockets and folds his arms in front of his chest. “What brings you here. At this time.” And now that he’s learned it, he doesn’t think he ever wants to stop saying it, even when it’s irrelevant. “Charles.” 

 

“I’ve just come to talk to my sister’s employer. But I’m heading back now.” 

 

He doesn’t reciprocate with the same enquiry, simply smiles placidly at his shoes, then somewhere around Erik’s arms, then up at his face. It’s odd, seeing him out of the alley, away from his dogs once again, but at the same time he has gained the comfort of knowing that Charles wouldn’t and hasn’t chosen to ignore Erik out of their usual setting. It’s a bit of a relief, something he hadn’t even thought would be of such significance to him and their easy relationship. All these little, careless things that aren’t supposed to hold such importance to Erik somehow _do_ , like the fact of name and a while of camaraderie are somehow the greatest things to exist. Charles is slowly piecing together to be someone Erik wants to learn all about until there’s nothing left—from his favourite colour to his worst habit, so he can relive this innocent joy again and each time. It’s the easiest source of happiness that’s ever come his way: this man alone.  

 

“Maybe I’ll see you tonight,” Charles says lightly, as though taking the cue from Erik’s lack of protest. But Erik is looking for his words, and meanwhile Charles’s expression becomes desperate. “Yes? Will I?” 

 

“Yes,” Erik confirms, watching Charles move down the steps backwards, but still facing him. Erik chuckles. “Don’t fall.” 

 

“I’ll be alright,” Charles smiles, and once he’s safely down on the concrete he loosens his smile to a contemplative pout. “You know what I remembered?” He doesn’t wait for Erik’s reply. “My coat. The one I wore last night—it was completely brand new. Right out of its box. In the cupboard locked from the dogs.” He smirks, gazing up at Erik. “Funny, isn’t it?” 

 

There’s nothing humorous about the way Erik remembers it. The snug warmth of Charles's body, the shape and slope of his shoulders, the hardness of his chest.  

 

But Erik had no right. It was Charles's body he had lingeringly touched, under a false excuse, just so he could feel the realness of the man who _strangely_ , seems to care about him. Now Charles knows of his lie but not his reason. Now Charles thinks Erik would feign and make Charles a fool. Now, Charles must hate Erik. 

 

But the man is grinning—and had he not been smiling just as expansively last night? If Erik had to experience an unwelcome touch, he'd flinch away from it, respond defensively, or avoid the offender at all costs. _Funny_ would be the very last word to describe it. 

 

Charles's questionable reaction still doesn't dispel the shame Erik feels. He internally ignites with a deep, apologetic flame of humiliation. His cheeks burn red with it; his palms sweat from the rising heat. 

 

He doesn't understand the wide smile Charles offers him as he walks away, a hand risen to wave at him—a gesture that Erik can't seem to mirror.  

 

::: 

 

It’s almost unreal how quickly the last week of that October comes round. Time fleets at a rapid pace when most days are spent in his little room, moping, regretting and sulking in turns. And not making any appointments with any johns. 

 

Within the next few days he has to acquire enough to pay the rent and keep the room, but he doesn’t even have half. Halloween will most likely be promising if he makes the effort, but the pull that draws him back to hiding is stronger than his urge to make money. His bed is hard and noisy and barely comfortable, but he prefers it to a stranger’s. He’ll lie back and think of Charles, anyway. Charles’s voice, his hands, and his soothing presence. 

 

The entirety of his room is fogged. He’s been busy filling it with the smoke of his cigarettes for a diligent hour, and now the odour is suffocating. He leaves, breathing in the clearer air, and too unfocused to notice where his body is instinctively taking him. The sound of the saxophone is arresting when he realises he hasn’t heard it for two whole weeks. He looks around in the dark, mind still recovering from the misty haze that had been obscuring everything in his sight.  

 

Then he’s being shoved into a wall with a wild ferocity. His back hits the bricks behind him from the impact, and he hasn’t the time to wince or retaliate once the harsh push comes again. When his mind eventually makes the link between the face in front of him, the hands on his chest, and the angry voice, he refrains from striking back. 

 

“Where have you _been_?!”  

 

Instead of answering, Erik smiles. An infuriated Charles is a worrying sight, but the fact that the man has a dog leash tied around each wrist compromises his formidability just a bit. When the smack of his palms against his chest is inevitable, it’s not nearly as painful as the way it had felt before. 

 

“Why are you _smiling_? You know I’ve been waiting here for you every night for the past _two weeks_! Haven’t you any idea?” 

 

The succession of questions awake the very same shock he’s been doting over for days—the disbelief, over anyone caring about him, someone showing concern without being superficial, and not dissociating from him when he does something resembling selfish. Being guarded is his default form of protection against getting hurt, because though Erik does that for a living, he doesn’t think he’ll have the capacity to troop on with trampled, twisted emptions. Especially if it means losing _Charles._ That, he thinks, will be like a permanent wound, gashing and wide open for all to see.  

 

The concern practically being shoved into his chest is so warm and delightful—but he’s so _underserving,_ he still doesn’t know what this man could want back— 

 

“Erik? Erik, talk to me.” The dogs at his heels bark, avid with the reunion, and Erik attempts to evade the emotions roiling in his gut by bending down to pet them both. 

 

“I’m sorry,” comes muttered into the dark, more towards the ground. “I’ve been busy.” 

 

No, he can’t give anything back. Not a thing that any sane man could ever want. Who would want a whore’s affection? Certainly not a pleasant, civilized man with a family and a respectable occupation. Erik is wasting Charles’s time, and has been for these past weeks. If there’s anything he’s chosen to learn over these years of raw, candid experiences, it’s the cruelty of the give and take world, the societal norm to keep the scales balanced by inherently demanding something in return. Selfless people don’t exist—in short—is what he's learned. 

 

Charles has been _everything_ to Erik, and so far, Erik has been nothing. More prominent had been his initial thoughts to rob the man, and every time he forces that reminder, a part of him hates himself more. 

 

“It’s alright,” Charles says, joining him to crouch over the ground. It’s impossible to figure out what this man expects Erik to do in return. Now that he’s offered his sincere forgiveness, what is Erik’s next move?  

 

“I’ll probably be very busy these days,” he explains solemnly. There’s honesty in there somewhere. “I don’t think you should wait up.” 

 

Charles pauses from where he’s handing Erik a stick treat for him to feed Gandalf with. “Erik—” 

 

“I’m sorry, but it would probably be better.” He gives it a thought. He has no money to give back in exchange, few clothes, a rusty kettle, useless knowledge of daily world affairs. Nothing Charles could want. Nothing of the same worth as what Charles has been giving him.

 

“Is this about that night?” Charles asks, but Erik decisively shakes his head, trying to dismiss the returning guilt the way Charles had smiled over his touch.   

 

“No, this is about me being busy.” When it’s out of his mouth, he instantly wishes he hadn’t said it so callously. Charles’s voice goes brittle. 

 

“Fine.” 

 

Erik shrugs. “Fine.” He knows Charles won’t press on for details to know what will be keeping him busy, if anything.  

 

The dogs are inane with happiness. The small pup has gained so much plumpness that Erik feels miserable at the thought of missing over a dozen nights of feeding him. The corgi is still as small as he remembers, but he’s sporting a new collar, and he can imagine Charles would’ve wanted to tell Erik about it on the day of its purchase. He sighs. 

 

“You never told me how the meeting with your boss went,” Erik says lightly. “Did it go well?” 

 

“Yes,” Charles says. “He even asked me out to dinner tomorrow night.” 

 

Erik freezes. He doesn’t _dare_ look up at Charles. If he’s joking, he’ll look like a fool. If he isn’t, he _is_ a fool, for considering it alright to abandon Charles for two entire weeks and let this happen. 

 

“A…” Erik clears his throat, eyes still fixed on the dog’s paws, before moving to Charles’s bent knee. “A business meeting – dinner date, or a…?” 

 

Charles only hesitates for a second. “A date. A dinner date, just between the two of us.” 

 

“And you said yes?” His eyes are still lowered, his face burning.  

 

“I did.” 

 

Erik’s eyes widen. “To a date with your boss?” His fist begins to clench of its own volition. 

 

“He’s… charismatic, you could say. Tolerable if I was to burst both my eardrums.” 

 

This gives Erik some kind of relief, relief he’s not at all entitled to. “Then what are you doing going on a date with him?” For this answer, Erik has to meet Charles’s eyes to better know what’s going on inside them. 

 

“I had no choice but to.” 

 

Erik’s mouth twists, “How—what? You were forced into it?” 

 

“It’s not what it seems.” But then Charles sighs wistfully and turns his face to the side. “He publicly implied I was a homophobe.” He runs a hand over his hair. “And I’m _not_. But just claiming that didn’t satisfy him. So I told him I’m gay.” 

 

“And…” Erik swallows. “You’re not.” 

 

“No, I… I am, or at least I _think_ I am. I’m—I’m not entirely sure, I’ve never been in a relationship, but… I have feelings for a man—um, for men.” They very carefully do not look at one another. Charles clears his throat before he continues. “I haven’t exactly come out; I thought I could do it when it would be necessary and when I would be ready.” 

 

“You weren’t ready,” Erik grits out. 

 

“I’m _not_ , no. But I did so, and in front of the entire faculty.” 

 

“And when that shit boss of yours asked you out, you said yes.” Charles looks up, alarmed by the vicious, unadulterated _hate_ in his voice. “Why? Why— _why_ , just why would you—” 

 

“No, you _can’t_ question what I’ve done.” Charles points a steady finger at him. “You weren’t here when I wanted to consult you.” 

 

Erik reels back, grinding his jaw, angry with himself. Charles had _wanted_ something from him, but Erik wasn't even there— 

 

“Secondly, he’s not as bad as I’ve made him sound. Sebastian’s my boss, after all. Saying no would make it far more awkward than simply going on a date with him.”  

 

Erik stands up to his full height, dusting his hands off and scowling as Charles continues. 

 

“And thirdly, if you must ask, he’s taking me to a very good Chinese restaurant on the high street.” 

 

They were all stupid excuses, evidence for how Charles is too lenient, perhaps. An adamant part of him tells him something else entirely—Charles wants to prove a point to Erik. Wants to make him feel _responsible_ for this _,_ because maybe Erik should incur this disaster. He ducks his head, then, with nothing to say. He doesn’t have the right. Charles has made his decision, he has obviously given it thought, and he has inferred how much value Erik’s opinion would have had. Even being the downgrade that he is—Charles would’ve potentially at least _listened_ to him.  

 

When Erik doesn’t speak, Charles quietly says, “I need to ask a favour.” Feeling defeated, he nods. Anything this man could want, he would do or bring to restore the balance between them. “Can you look after the dogs? They like to see you at this time, and they tend to team up and trash the house when I’m gone in the evenings…” 

 

“I’ll look after them,” he shrugs. “Where will you be?” The sound of hope overlaying his voice is unavoidable. Any opportunity, he thinks, to just see if Charles is still okay, and hasn’t agreed to another date. 

 

“I’ll leave the dogs with the saxophone player at six and collect them at eight. Is that alright? Or… are you too busy?” 

 

Erik licks his lips, eyes roving down. “I guess not.” 

 

“Good,” Charles says simply, petting the puppy as he brings him back the toy he’d thrown. “Then I’ll—”  

 

Charles’s eyes flit up to Erik’s shoulder abruptly, his sentence rendered incomplete. Cautiously, Erik turns, and finds himself closely facing an unfamiliar man. A man in a blue baseball cap.  

 

He turns back over his shoulder to share a look with Charles—who looks equally as confused by the man’s proximity and imposing stance. It doesn’t bother Erik until he feels a finger jabbing into the bone of his back. 

 

“Excuse me?” 

 

Erik doesn’t want to acknowledge the man, not while Charles is present, at least, but then the man is stepping forward to stand directly in front of him. 

 

“What?” Erik snaps. 

 

“How much for the night?” 

 

Erik stills. His breath catches in his throat. 

 

“Hello? One night; how much do you charge if I want you for the night?” 

 

The man steps nearer, the shape of his cap getting bigger, the tip of his shoe getting closer. Taking a step back himself will barge him into the wall. He doesn’t know why, but he raises his eyes to look at Charles.  

 

He’s blinking at him, _lost_ , completely _lost._  

 

Erik swallows. 

 

“Um,” he whispers. His mind has reached its point of surrender—this is it, this is all it is. Now, Charles _knows_. Charles is aware of it. Charles is going to pretend Erik doesn’t exist, and it will be for the better—he has his rent to pay, money to make, deadlines to keep. Charles has a date tomorrow night, another man to please, a reputation to uphold. They’re now going to return to where they belong: Charles in a dainty uptown restaurant, Erik on a stranger’s bed. This is fitting—apt, he thinks bitterly. If they’re going to part ways, why not like this? Reminding them both of who and what they are, and how foolish they’ve been to waste time planting the seeds of a thoughtless friendship. This is where the give and take ends; Charles has been the gift that Erik now has to give back. If he says it enough times, it’ll make sense, and he can believe it. For now, he has to convince himself that going with the man in the cap is the right choice. Rejecting him, falling into debt, staring into Charles’s hurt and confused eyes is not an appropriate option. He’s doing the right thing when he lists a price. He’s doing the right thing when he says, “Excuse me, Charles.” He’s doing the right thing when he takes the man home.  

 

He really doesn’t know what he’s doing, turning to look at Charles over his shoulder, who is still crouched on the ground over the dogs, eyes plagued with _heartbreak_. 

 

::: 

 

The Man offers him a cigarette and Erik takes it. His back begins to ache. He rolls out of bed to look at the window, which now reflects his appearance back to him. He is disappointed to see the absence of fingerprints on his chest, where Charles’s hands had been. He begins to redecorate his room with smoke. 

 

The Man takes a look around his bedsit and takes out his checkbook. He scrawls down some numbers and tears the slip of paper before tossing it on the pillow. Erik doesn’t acknowledge him as he swiftly leaves—he doesn’t even glance at the check—he continues to stare at his reflection and endure the pain in his back. 

 

::: 

 

He gets to the saxophone player at five. He curses at the sight of two loitering little dogs and the musician, only. He seizes the leash of each little canine, mutters a “thanks,” to the homeless man, and sets off on a brisk march. 

 

“We are going to each and every Chinese restaurant in this city until we find him.” 

 

The dogs enthusiastically bark back in what Erik perceives as agreement. 

 

::: 

 

There is an abundance of Chinese restaurants in their city. The heels of Erik’s feet throb, his hands ache with indents, and his back screams in protest with every step he takes. 

 

But he’s yet to give up.  

 

At least Gandalf and Frodo are enjoying the trek. Their senses are useful in tracking down their owner; Erik knows when to retreat from a restaurant when he’s being tugged in a different direction.   

 

“We have to go on,” Erik tells the dogs as they hike down the street. “We can’t let him date such an awful man. It’s my fault, and I have to fix this.” Gandalf mewls in understanding. “I know I’m no match for your Charles,” he sighs. “But if he’s going to date a man for the first time, it has to be the last. It has to be the best of the best. I’m going to make sure of it. That’s my _give_. That’s what he deserves in return.” 

 

::: 

 

It’s seven o’clock when Erik stops for the first time. He wipes the sweat from his brow and asks the locals around for the time, the street, where he can find good Chinese food, where will _Charles be…_  

 

The second time he stops is because Frodo has to relieve himself. Gandalf follows suit. 

 

The third time he’s gawking in shock at Klaus Schmidt, as he leisurely exits a lavish restaurant. His hand is on Charles’s lower back. 

 

Erik doesn’t move, then. He’d been waiting for this moment—an encounter with a man he could hate with all his might, blame for everything, and release his wrath upon. That person is Charles’s boss. He had always wanted to keep Charles aside from all this—this exactly, but Klaus has never left him the same person and Charles’s effect, in comparison, has left him a healthier person. 

 

But this isn’t about him. This is about Charles. Charles has done nothing to deserve the company of a man any less than perfect. And if Erik is to ensure, as part of his debt and duty, to keep Charles happy with perfection, he should be ripping them apart. Klaus should be nowhere _near_ him. 

 

His hair is cropped and the moustache is gone, but the closer Erik gets to the pair of them, as they pause to wait for a taxi, the more he’s certain that this is the very same man he had encountered not long ago. His fingers had been course, his teeth sharp, his words and laughter and actions vile— 

 

“Charles!” he yells, his breath labored. “Charles! Charles—please, _wait_.” 

 

Both men turn around from where they’re standing on the curb. The dogs thrust themselves forward, excited to find their owner after the tiring hunt. Erik lets them go and stumbles, almost tripping onto the road – still panting from his sprint. It’s Charles, then, who comes to his aid and places a hand on his shoulders to brace him steadily back up. 

 

“Erik? What—are you alright, Erik? Is there something the matter?” 

 

In reply, Erik pants some more, glances up at Charles’s sharply clothed form, and sinks again. Without sounding ridiculous, or utterly insignificant, he wants to be able to convey to Charles just what a _bad_ investment this man is going to be. But words fail him. 

 

“Charles—Charles please. Not… not him.” 

 

His eyes flicker to his date. Klaus is striding towards them, hands in his pockets, expression stern. Erik just _knows_ that he’s being studied, and _has_ been recognized, by the way he takes in a long, quiet breath.  

 

“What’s going on, Charles? Why aren’t we leaving?” 

 

It stings a little, then a lot, when he sees the way Klaus deliberately snakes his hand across Charles’s back again. He doesn’t let that deter him, though, and he keeps his gazed locked with Charles’s. He wants to _shake_ him, wake him up from the illusion Klaus is casting, make him understand that the man who should get to put his hand on his back and take him out on dates and ensure he gets home should be the man _Charles_ chooses himself. Least of all should it be someone who had made him helpless to accept.  

 

“Erik? Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or—” 

 

“Charles, leave the boy, let’s go.” 

 

Erik takes one look at Charles and reaches for both his hands. He presses them together between his palms, soaking up the courage to speak. 

 

“Don’t date him. He’s not the man you deserve.” 

 

“Oh for _crying out loud_ , Charles, leave this scum and get in the cab!”   

 

Charles blinks at Erik once, then turns to bluntly glare at the man behind him from over his shoulder. “Sebastian, please be silent.” 

 

“You have to understand, Charles,” Erik laments. “I met this man—his name is Klaus,” the words take their time in floating to the surface, “I met him—I mean I—I…” 

 

“Yes?” Charles whispers, prompting. From his periphery, he can see Klaus exhale in exasperation. 

 

“I don’t know how to say this…” 

 

“There’s no need! Charles, let’s go.” 

 

“Sebastian shut up.” 

 

His assessing eyes rake down Erik’s body. Charles catches him shudder. “Are you really going to stand here and listen to this—” 

 

Charles is quick to bite back, interrupting him. “Don’t.” He turns to Erik. “Speak.” 

 

It’s no longer as easy as it had been before. Klaus is glowering at him, but Charles is patiently waiting for him to continue, like he’s depending on him—which he is, because if Erik doesn’t convince him, Charles will get _hurt_ , and just to prove a point— 

 

“He’s not a good man. You know he’s not. And I know too, that he’s not what you deserve, because. Because once when—when I was _with_ him he… he.” Pausing, his eyes flit up to Klaus. The other man looks back at him blankly. Then Charles is closing the distance left between them, bending to catch his eye. His voice goes soft, understanding, and Erik figures out in that moment that Charles has understood what Erik is trying to utter. It must already be something prevalent in his thoughts for the past day. 

 

“Erik, just tell me yes or no. Did this man,” Charles inclines his head towards Klaus. “Ever show you any disrespect any time you were _with_ him?” 

 

The affirmation shoots to his lips, but a sound doesn’t come out. His mouth simply twitch a fraction, his eyes shuttering close. He feels Charles take yet another step towards him.  

 

“Tell me, Erik. If you say yes I _will_ punch him in the face. So tell me, yes. Or no.” 

 

Behind them, Klaus makes a guttural noise. He begins to brush past the dogs, his face twisted with agitation as he hails another cab.  

 

Erik moves closer to Charles, his eyes so near that Erik has to look from one to the other.  

 

“I don’t—I don’t want this to be about me, but. Yes.” 

 

“He was disrespectful to you?” 

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Then it is about you, Erik. I’m not going to affiliate myself with someone who didn’t treat you with respect.” 

 

Far too fast for him to stop him, Charles is marching away. The dogs part for him, both coming to his side as he goes to Klaus and hauls him up to his chest by his suit jacket. Amused, Klaus simply seizes Charles by both his wrists, jaw drawn tight as he stares at the shorter man from down his nose—and yes, Charles is small, and looks softer than a peach, and he probably can’t even feel the tiny little dogs nipping at his heels, but when Charles knees him in the groin, the yowl that rips from his throat begs to differ.  

 

And it _is_ satisfying to his ears, that Erik can’t deny. It means Charles has trusted his word and made the right decision. Then there’s the comfort of gaining indirect revenge through Charles’s means. But it also means he’s done his job; the chapter is closed and he should go home. 

 

“He’s a _whore_ , you’re defending a _whore_!” he hears, loud even as he paces away from the scene. Clearer is Charles’s voice, angrily replying, “He still deserves respect, Sebastian! He’s still a person!” 

 

His escape quickens. Disregarding his pain, he rushes forward on his unsteady legs, hasty in his retreat. Charles has saved himself from the mess Erik had done nothing to prevent. And this is it; this is all it is. 

 

Erik is still not the perfect man Charles should be with.  

 

He goes past all the shops and houses and restaurants and streets that he had scuttled past earlier. The lights around him become a merged blur, his footsteps painful and lethargic—his hand reaches up to wipe the sheen of sweat on his forehead, and when it drops by his side again, another hand is grappling for it. 

 

“Erik wait!” 

 

Gandalf and Frodo spring up in front of him, their leashes trailing them on the pavement. He knows Charles is behind him now, somehow having caught up to him, but the fact that his hand is holding onto Erik’s— 

 

“I’m sorry Erik.” 

 

Charles’s hand slips from around Erik’s wrist, but he regains his grip as he clamps each of his hands around two of Erik’s long fingers. He swallows. 

 

“Why are you leaving without me?”  

 

Erik is too aware of where Charles is holding him. Before it had been his sweaty palms grasping and clutching for Charles’s hands, desperately trying to persuade him. And now Charles is the one reaching for him, asking Erik why he’s leaving him.  

 

The answer is simple, but stuck in his throat. 

 

He glances down at where the dogs are circling both their owner and himself, their tongues hanging off their bottom teeth. Frodo bounces up and down in joy, ready for another energizing walk.  

 

Then he concentrates on where his hand is being held, gently tugged, _felt_ , with a kind of gentle care he had never thought he would ever be granted. If this touch is solely meant to halt Erik from moving, then it would’ve ended moments ago. Yet it’s still there; something without a purpose that feels so _necessary_. 

 

But as Erik had discovered earlier in the night, Charles capably senses where Erik’s verbal hesitations cast him speechless, and so he pipes up, “Oh, never mind. Now I’m here,” and hands Erik Gandalf’s leash. 

 

Perhaps, then, Charles also catches Erik’s disappointment when his hands let go of Erik’s.  

 

The erratic night turns mellow, peaceful even, as they walk side by side with a dog each. Charles isn’t chattering unstoppably the way he usually does at this time, and while Erik loves and misses and sometimes _urges_ for that sound, he prefers that Charles isn’t trying to entertain Erik. He supposes Charles would have quite a lot to think about, considering the painful way he ended his date with his boss, and all Erik wants at the moment is to fulfill his favour and help him take the dogs back home.  

 

At one point Erik’s arms brushes Charles’s, and even though he knows Charles has turned his face to glance at him, he keeps his eyes ahead. Unlike with the coat, this touch isn’t deliberate, and he doesn’t want Charles to think he’s repeated his mistake.  

 

Sometimes he fears he’s too far gone to fear what Charles thinks of him anymore. These trivial precautions can’t redeem him from the myriad of things about him that Charles most likely finds repulsive. Undesirable.  

 

Charles is still staring at him when Gandalf shoots forward to the street that leads into their alleyway. The leash jerks and takes Erik by force, making his back arch harshly before he regains the balance to run by his reigns. Frodo follows, eager for a race, and Charles is tugged ahead the same way Erik is—but while Charles is laughing with joy, Erik is wincing with back pain.  

 

Immediately, Charles drops Frodo’s leash and stalks to his side, placing both his hands on Erik’s waist. 

 

“Are you alright, Erik?” he asks, not for the first time tonight. The closer his face comes to Erik’s, the more he presses his palms against his flanks, soothing, paying attention, _too_ much attention, the kind that he’ll never be able to repay— 

 

“I’m…” he stops to think, use just one phrase to describe what he is. One single honest word that hasn’t already been apparent to Charles over the course of their acquaintanceship. “… I’m sore.” 

 

“Where? Is it just your back?” he asks, and Erik nods. He doesn’t ask _how_ , so Erik weakly supplies, 

 

“Comes with the job.” 

 

Erik looks down at Charles and waits. He’s put Charles in a terrible position with his words, he knows this, but there has to be a moment where Charles will give up and walk away from him, and Erik is creating the ideal opportunity, for his wonderful old friend. More so when he pulls himself free of Charles’s kind hands and parts from him, walking silently to the mouth of the alleyway.  

 

But Charles doesn’t give up. 

 

“Leaving me again, are we?” 

 

Erik places a hand on his back, jolted. He wants to shrug and walk on, make it impossible for Charles to bother with him any longer, but instead he says, “I fail to understand why my presence matters so much.” 

 

He’s glad his back is turned to Charles while he speaks, because he can’t imagine what expression his face holds when his voice alone is so _riled_ with disbelief. 

 

“It does matter. And it always has. Why... why must you hate yourself so much, Erik?” 

 

He turns his head briefly, “There’s a lot to hate.” 

 

He almost doesn’t hear Charles over the sound of him stepping closer. “A lot to love, if you ask me.” 

 

His heart swells to double its size. The word _love_ has just been shared between them, the word has been on Charles’s tongue, its weight is heavy on his mind. _Love_ , he thinks—the kind to counter hate, or the kind that springs free and unconditionally from another lonely man’s heart? There has to be something to love _about_ him, there has to be something Charles _wants_ from him— 

 

“What do you want from me?” he whispers silently, because now he’s aware of how close Charles is and knows there’s no longer a need to shout like he can’t be heard. He’s aware of Charles running the lightest touch through his hair and sighing against the nape of his neck. 

 

“Nothing from you. Just you. Please.”  

 

Erik finally turns around, his steps slowly inching to get closer to Charles as his body turns.  

 

All his imperfections and yet… He aches to know: is Charles _blind_ to them? Who he is, what he does and what he's done – Charles probably thinks he’s still homeless, _definitely_ knows he’s worthless, penniless, born with a fibbing tongue, not a thing to give— 

 

It hasn't even occurred to him that the only thing he can limitlessly offer this man and afford to accept is the very same thing: 

 

Love.   

 

::: 

 

Charles doesn’t leave his side once while he takes Erik to his house. He had both his little dogs in the clutches of one hand, while the other had been securely placed over his elbow. Erik learns the route, counting blocks and remembering street names. 

 

“The alleyway is a long walk from your house,” Erik points out when he finds they’ve been walking for over fifteen minutes.  

 

“Are you tired? Oh Erik—I’m so sorry, you must be _knackered_ —” 

 

“No,” Erik says quickly. They’ve been walking slowly for Erik’s sake—even the dogs have tired themselves, but Erik is less aware of his exhaustion and more aware of Charles in step next to him, Charles’s words, what he’s just discovered… “I meant to say, you come a long way to see me every day. I thought you maybe lived around the corner.” 

 

Charles gently tugs him closer by the hand on his elbow, and he follows, adhering to his side.  

 

"If you thought this was a hardship, then you'll be _very_ alarmed to know the kind of things I would be willing to do for you, my friend." 

 

::: 

 

The way Charles handles him makes it safe to say he could be mistaken for glass. He holds him with two caring hands and asks after his health at every step and even, at some point, offers to carry Erik in his arms. 

 

The baby blue scarf tucked under Charles's chin gets unraveled and placed around his neck. He's surrounded by it now: warmth and wool, and depthless, unconditional comfort, the kind he'd been dreaming of for years.  

 

The kind he had thought he would never be worthy of.

 

But he should be going, he realises, as he stands at the door of Charles's apartment, waiting for him to stick his key in its place. The rattle of thin metal wakes him suddenly, makes him realise he's not supposed to be letting Charles bring him home, literally, just to be fussed over. 

 

"Charles I should—" 

 

"Shh." 

 

"Charles, I can't, I have to go—" 

 

" _Shh_."  

 

Erik would never have thought to stop Charles from leaving by placing his fingers on his lips. His eyes dip to look at the three fingers pressed against his mouth, silencing him, dragging downwards as a brief caress. 

 

"I don't want to be a burden," he says, when they step into his living room, dodging the dogs as they dash for the bowl of food Charles refills in the kitchen. He stays in the front, politely keeping his hands by his side and his eyes down.  

 

"Take something to eat from the fridge," Charles calls out. 

 

Erik raises his voice, "I said, I don't want to be a burden." 

 

"But don't eat whatever's in the silver foil. You'll regret it. We all did." 

 

He's supposed to emphasise, but instead he frowns and asks, "Why don't you just throw it out?" 

 

But then he's marching up to the fridge himself, curiosity peaking, and goes to investigate whatever the hell is in the packaging.  

 

It's impossible, amongst the eating and investigating and impatient reheating, to identify the rent-boy from the university lecturer. Erik is reclining in an armchair when the thought tides over his mind. Charles is sitting by his feet, asking him if his back is better, wondering if the food will digest, resting his head on Erik's thigh and murmuring, "Stay the night, please." 

 

::: 

 

His back _is_ better, so when Charles offers to take him to a physiotherapist in the morning, he immediately declines. Charles doesn't stubbornly insist, though Erik can tell the fight is flickering in his eyes. He simply nods and says, "Alright, if that's what you want." 

 

He shouldn't let himself get used to getting his way, but Charles makes it seem so easy - like it's nothing for him, to do as Erik pleases.

 

When it becomes time for sleeping arrangements, the little corgi and puppy curl together in their dog bed, content. "Though they'll end up in my bed in the morning," Charles laughs, while Erik contemplates over where that could be. This is probably the moment where Erik should excuse himself, but Charles looks _overjoyed_ by having his company. Today, what Charles has said in the alleyway means more to him than the man himself could know—Erik is still turning the word, the sound—the thought of _love_ over and over in his head.  

 

" _And_ ," Charles is suddenly saying into his ear directly. "I'm guessing you weren't hearing any of what I was saying." He smiles and rubs a hand over his neck as Erik blinks out of his daze. 

 

"Uh, I was, actually," thinking about Charles, love, Charles and love, Charles's love. "You were saying something about ending up in your bed in the morning...?" 

 

Charles raises his brow, though he's blushing scarlet, "In what context?" 

 

Erik gapes and then promptly shuts his mouth, reconsidering the words he's said. He slaps a hand over his forehead. "I'm sorry, it's been a long day." 

 

That makes Charles's smile curl down sadly. "It's alright, come here." He opens his arms. 

 

Erik stares. Charles gives him a nod of encouragement. _A hug_ , he thinks—since when did a person want to _hug_ him? He looks down at his feet nervously, not trusting them to move. 

 

"It's okay," Charles whispers, his hands dropping a little when Erik remains unmoving. Then they drop completely, along with Erik's heart. 

 

"No, I—" he tightens his jaw and walks towards the other man, brusquely wrapping an arm low around Charles's hips and the other over his shoulders. He has to bend, and his back aches with the way he folds his body down. 

 

"Erik," Charles says, removing the arm around his hips and placing it up on his shoulders with the other. "Just relax." He walks further into Erik's grip until his own arms are pulled lightly around his waist, palms flat against his back, applying little pressure. Erik tries to give in, let the other person do the work, let the affection coat him and warm him and undo him. He hums silently, his thumb flicking up to stroke Charles's hair and guide his head down on his shoulder. It falls perfectly, pliantly, like he's his to goad and fit against him. "It's so nice to have you here," he whispers softly, snuggling closer to Erik's neck. Erik breathes the words in, and breathes them out just as easily, releasing the air with a smile. He doesn't have to press Charles closer to his chest, for Charles does it himself. Then he abruptly takes a step back, holding Erik's hands by his outspread arms. "Your back? Is it okay?" 

 

"It's better," he shrugs, before moving forward to reel Charles back towards him, who resists. 

 

"No—you're still not fully recovered." He pulls Erik towards the master bedroom and sits Erik down on the bed before disappearing in the restroom himself. Erik is given one moment only to frown and pick himself up to stand before Charles is scampering back, sitting him down on the bed again. His other hand has a liquid bottle of oil in it. He very seriously says, "Back massage. Come on now, take off your shirt. Lie on your stomach." He clears his throat and spins around. "Look, I've turned around for you." 

 

Erik heaves a sigh. "You don't need to massage me. It'll get better itself." 

 

"I'm not going to let you sit there and wait for it to heal." 

 

"For the third time, I said I don't want to be a burden on you." 

 

Charles turns his head to the side, "When will you understand my care for you, Erik? I don't enjoy seeing you suffering or in pain. My care and respect and love for you does _not_ burden me."   

 

Erik swallows thickly, the sound loud in the sudden silence. He whispers, "Say that again." 

 

Charles turns back round to face him. "My love for you cannot ever be a burden on me." Erik's eyes shut as Charles brings a hand to his cheek. 

 

"Please," he cries, squeezing his eyes and holding his breath. Charles crouches down to meet his eyes at his level. 

 

"My love for you, Erik," Charles breathes softly, "will never burden me. It lifts all the weight off my shoulders." 

 

Erik's head lolls to the other side, where Charles's other hand comes to hold him.  

 

::: 

 

He lies down on the duvet, his head resting on the pillow. Charles plants a knee either side of his hips, sitting back on Erik's thighs. He can hear Charles rub his hands together, warming the oil smothered between them, then descend his hot palms on his shoulders. He applies long strokes over the curves of his shoulders, repeatedly until Erik feels a glowing warmth. He drags his palms up and down his flanks, lets his knuckles linger along his flesh, rubs strong circular motions down to just above his lower back, always avoiding his spine. Erik's eyes roll back, his lips parting from the pain relief. His mouth goes dry; rasped whispers spill out when Charles's soft hands place concentrated pressure in a sensitive area—a thumb below his neck's nape, a curious finger tracing the curve of his spine, the heel of his hand sliding up and down either sides of his back.  

 

"Take a deep breath, Erik," he whispers, his lips fleetingly brushing Erik's ear as he uses the tip of his smallest finger to move the strands of his hair to one side. Erik complies, breathing in through his nose and out from his mouth. His body feels new, freshly pieced together and scented with roses, slick and soft and unmarred. At least, that's the way Charles makes him feel with his reverent hands roaming over his body's planes. Charles drapes himself over Erik's back, his weight not completely suspended on him as he hovers above him with his knees still in place. He ducks his head to speak into Erik's ear again, "Open your eyes, Erik." Erik does exactly that, finding clarity in his vision through the dreamy haze of his relaxation. "Look at me, Erik." His eyes dart away from the brown bed sheets to the man breathing over him. Their eyes meet. Charles's lips, the same ones that had smiled to save him and breathe to change him and whisper his name again and again, like he can never get enough of him, press a kiss down on his neck. Muffled against Erik's warm skin, he says, “I have wanted to love you for so long.” 

 

Erik's eyes flutter to close again as Charles's mouth trails a thousand kisses over the span of his shoulders. When he leans, his dress shirt presses against Erik's bicep and the desire for skin against his own becomes urgent. But he doesn't, and _can't_ utter a word when Charles's kisses become open mouthed, his lips parting and sliding over the lines of Erik's ribs as he rolls onto his back. It doesn't hurt, nothing does, except the possibility of all this being a dream. The oil lathered on his back makes the duvet feel sticky under him, so he rises to sit up and pull Charles into his lap.  

 

"Do you want this," Charles whispers against his hair, adjusting himself as his limbs wrap around Erik. "You have to tell me you want this." 

 

"I am desperate for this," he replies, through the hitch in his breath. 

 

"Do you want me," Charles says, taking Erik's hands and placing them over his thighs. "Me, us, do you want—no, do you _trust_ me," he pants. "Do you trust me?" 

 

"Of course," Erik grasps Charles's face with both his hands. "But this is all new to you," he says pragmatically. "You've got to tell me you trust me in return. I don't want to overwhelm you." 

 

"Really?" Charles chuckles low in his throat, his own hands moving to untuck his shirt from his trousers. "I want you to overwhelm me all you want. I want every part of you. I trust you." He tilts his head to press their foreheads together. "Just be with me."  

 

Erik nods, too content in watching to aid Charles in unbuttoning his shirt. He looks up into Charles's eyes, fearing he'll see nerves or uncertainty about this big step, but no—his eyes carry a fire of passion, anticipation, just the slightest bit of curiosity. Erik watches the man peel off his shirt, then tear away his undershirt. They both share a glance as Charles pelts his clothes away on the floor and slowly leans into the distance between them to press his lips against Erik's. He thinks—this is all new to him, too. A kiss, pressed lovingly against his mouth, and not a bone in his body wants it to end. He cups Charles's face and frowns in concentration as he waits for the perfect moment to shift his head, then moves to slide his upper lip over Charles's so his tongue can gently prod for entrance into his mouth. He kisses the man harder, pulling Charles closer by his upper arm, until they tumble back and Erik has to flip them over to bring his mouth down over Charles's again. Charles murmurs softly, his body hot under Erik's skin. The kiss is persistent—Erik still unwilling to come off the other man, and he continues to kiss and nip and suck on Charles's mouth, eager and alive, until there isn't a part he doesn't know the taste of. His heart soars. Charles whimpers, allowing Erik one more wet kiss before tapping his shoulder and giving him a light shove. 

 

" _Okay_ , Erik, I'm _overwhelmed_ ," he says, breathless, but still not looking like he regrets this decision. Still. 

 

Erik licks his lips, then brings his thumb to the corner of Charles's mouth to wipe a swab of saliva.  

 

"How... how should we do this?" asks Charles, looking up at Erik as he lets him clear his mouth with his hand. 

 

"This might sound outrageous, but I thought maybe we should be naked," he says good-naturedly, dipping his head to rub the tip of his nose against Charles's.

 

Erik brings his head back and saves a moment to just watch Charles, remind himself of what his life will now revolve around. He's too glad to give up the life he already has to commit to this. He can see himself tomorrow, the day after, the week after, the month after: with Charles, for Charles—thinking about how lucky he is to have Charles. He can see himself being happy. 

 

But above all; most importantly of all, he can see himself keeping Charles happy. 

 

"Erik," Charles whispers. "I thought we were going to get naked." 

 

In answer, Erik reaches down to push down his jeans and flimsily kicks them off his legs. Expecting Charles to have done the same, he frowns when he notices he hasn't moved.  

 

"You can do it for me," he allows, leaving Erik slightly mesmerized. His eyes follow Erik's hands raptly as they unbuckle Charles's belt, unzip him, and take off the slacks of the suit he had worn to the date. The trousers are fought off his ankles and unceremoniously thrown on the ground. Even though, initially, Charles had gained eyefuls of Erik's cock by staring between his legs without a single blink, Erik glances down at his lover coyly. It makes him _want_ to press a kiss on it, makes him _want_ to suck it into his mouth, makes him _so desperately willing_ to have its length filling him. But he has to take a step back; it needs to be at a slower, languid pace for Charles. He's relying on Erik's guidance to make this pleasurable for them both. He worriedly asks, "How should we position ourselves?" 

 

Erik thinks about it, considering the earlier massaging position that had Charles above, the soft power he had over him, the affectionate domination over his body to satisfy him. So he rolls off of Charles and goes to fetch the oil before bending over the bed, so that he avoids the sticky duvet under his back and doesn’t have to part his legs too much. "You on top of me," he clarifies. 

 

"Are you sure?" Charles asks lowly, as Erik twists the cap of the oil and pours some onto his fingers. 

 

"Yes," he leans up on one elbow and reaches around himself with his other, oiled hand. "Now I'm going to prepare myself for you. I don't need much, but—look, watch." He inserts a finger into himself, feeling hot all over that Charles is learning how to do this from watching him. He doesn't need very much loosening at all, easily able to fit three fingers after just a short while, but still works himself open just to show Charles. "Do you have a condom?" 

 

Charles's eyes widen, still not tearing his eyes away. "… Um, ye—uh, yes." His eyes don't leave Erik once, not even to blink, and his arm has to locate the desk drawer handle by touch alone, wrench it open blindly, and paw inside it frantically. By the time a square foil packet has found its way between Charles's lips, Erik is chuckling, nervous as he is. Charles rolls the condom onto his cock evenly, its length and girth more prominent to Erik now that it's erect. He licks his dry lips, flushing at the thought of how badly he wants Charles to drive into him until they sweat. 

 

He supports himself up on his elbows, pulse throbbing madly. His cock leaks messily against his thigh as he patiently waits for Charles to appear behind him again, all warm and tender and eager. When he does bend over him, it’s the hard, round head of his cock he feels against him. 

 

"Is this alright?" he warily whispers, his hand cupping Erik's shoulder. 

 

"S’perfect," Erik says, fisting the sheets in his desperation. Even though Charles is yet to enter him at all, he assures him, "You can go deeper." 

 

"Will it hurt you?" 

 

"No, Charles, it's going to feel wonderful. For both of us. I promise." 

 

"Okay. Tell me if you feel any pain at any point." 

 

He knows to expect this from Charles, but he'd been doing this for a living, and yet - he's never once known what those words would sound like. Charles rests his cheek against Erik's head, breathing shakily as his cock breeches Erik with slow, gentle care. Erik grits his teeth at the burning slide, the sensation electric, familiar up until the point where the hot throbbing inside him belongs to his Charles, his dog man, his best friend, his lover. He pants, trembling as he quietly moans into Erik's neck. His mouth plants a firm kiss on every patch of skin it lands on, soothing, whispering superfluous apologies for the way he makes Erik see stars. When Erik tells him, _go deeper, go faster, want every part in me,_ Charles submissively follows through, his hips snapping in a dancer's rhythm. His short breaths fan Erik's skin, his hands clamber for Erik's shoulders, his red lips purse and press from one place to the other—Erik can never guess next, when suddenly Charles is taking his fisted hands into his own and pressing them to his lips to smother with kisses. There's so much love in this, _he_ suddenly feels overwhelmed. 

 

"Erik," Charles gasps sharply, oblivious to the way it makes his cock jump. Erik ruts lethargically against the bed sheets, Charles's thrusts grinding him down further until his sensitive head is burning from the friction against the soft fabric. The persistent pleasure, the way Charles rocks into him while laving him with his touch, the entire atmosphere of arousal between them—Erik thinks he's going to come first, thickly and abundantly over the brown sheets, but then Charles is the one clasping for Erik's hands and covering them tightly, hissing into his ear and licking its shell, falling forward on an elbow to smooth his hand down from Erik's cheek to his neck to his shoulder and down to rest at his bicep. His chin rests lightly against his shoulder, lips ghosting kisses over every part of him he can reach, telling Erik to fall and fly with him. Untouched, it's difficult for Erik to come, but it's the _thought_ of Charles's hands around his cock, twisting to clamp their soft, smooth texture all around him, then rubbing circles the way he'd artfully done earlier, knuckles dragging, mouth wet for Erik to feel all over his body— 

 

Spikes of heat, waves of pleasure; his body on a chemical high, hollow as though he's weightless, but still present enough to have Charles draped over him, breathing in his smell and calming down his shivers. He bites his lip hard, restraining from the temptation to reach down and touch himself, but he spurts his seed out with another twitch from his cock, as he stains the sheets below them. 

 

 

::: 

 

It doesn't seem real. Charles is laying on his chest. His calves are curled around Erik's knees. His mouth is swollen against Erik's collarbone. The night is silent, and he can stay. 

 

Draught wisps in from under the door, and Erik shudders from the cool air on his bare skin. He wants to pull the covers up higher on them, but the way Charles is laying makes it difficult for him to tug them away. So instead, Erik cuddles closer to Charles, cradling his head with his hand and letting Charles slip a leg in between his. His longer, thicker hair falls across Erik's sternum as he sleepily shifts to heft more of his body on top of Erik.  

 

Who knew he could do this to a man?

 

:::  

 

In the middle of the night they wake up to share a kiss.  

 

Charles's fingers drum along his breastbone, then slither down to find the sharp bump of his hipbone. He ends the kiss and holds Erik's face in his hands to take a better look at him. Erik prepares himself for anything, anything at all but clear tears in Charles's eyes. He brushes them away, smothering their shine with the bud of his thumb. He kisses Charles furiously, lifting him off the bed to wrap him around his arms. _I'm okay now,_ he wants to say, but that would be an understatement. So he makes better use of his mouth by pecking Charles's keenly, each kiss a loud _no, don't cry_ — _please, don't cry..._  

 

::: 

 

At some point before the arrival of the morning, they shift positions to end up with Erik's hands around Charles's hips. His hand slips down, not deliberately, and finds itself folding in the perfect shape, deliberately, to wrap around Charles's veiny shaft and tug. Charles's moans sing out of him, his eyes little slits squeezed shut as his wet mouth hangs open. Charles's arse curves outwards, to his side, its cleft teasing the slit of Erik's cock. They both gasp, loud and unruly and boastful of their shared pleasure. Charles clamps his hand over Erik's, strokes his fingers, then reaches behind to find Erik's cock. He manages a loose hold from the angle, still plentiful for Erik, who can barely believe the heady enactment of his earlier fantasy. Charles seems to somehow _know_ that Erik will cry out in rapture if he's to make his cock slide against his cleft again, drag over unexplored, virginal skin, not far in and light enough to tease—because that's exactly what he does. Erik gasps, inadvertently clenching the fist around Charles's cock, too lost in his head to notice the pulse of come. Thick droplets rain down on his hand, his fingers uncurling to capture each. After a sigh, a sob, and a short laugh, Charles turns on his other side to wrap both of his hands around Erik's cock. He's bold for a first-timer, charged with enthusiasm, but not hesitance. He confidently pumps Erik with both his hands, skittering his nails just enough and fondling his balls from time to time, until Erik has to bring the pillow over his face and yell into it as he climaxes.  

 

::: 

 

In the morning, Charles is sitting up against the headboard, his fingers carding through Erik's hair. There's an anchoring weight over his legs, which he belatedly realises are the two dogs. He blinks and lifts his head, when Charles suddenly rests his hand over his forehead and softly tells him, "It's okay, Erik, go back to sleep." 

 

::: 

 

A few hours later, he really wishes it were Charles licking his face, but he's pretty sure he isn't that hairy and small. 

 

::: 

 

It's afternoon when his hands spread out to feel emptiness. He takes a deep breath, surprised by the herbal scent of steamy tea unfurling from behind him. He turns to see a cup of tea on its saucer, indubitably filled with sugar, set beside toast and a glass of water. He frowns as he slowly reaches for the water, swallowing it down wistfully. Charles hadn't woken him up. Despite being a light sleeper, he hadn't woken up himself. He takes another long sip before slipping off the bed. 

 

He stops for a moment to remember. His smile returns. 

 

He goes to pet the dogs on the sofa, waiting for the sound of the shower to end. He can't imagine how he'll ever get used to this constant want for Charles. It will always put him in so much despair. Yet it's thrilling; belonging to him and being his. 

 

He paces for a while, unsurprised by the lack of pain in his back. He washes his mouth out thoroughly in the kitchen before going to taste the tea.  

 

Restless, aching for the outlet, he marches up to the door of the restroom and plasters himself against it. He presses his forehead against the wood, then his cheek then his ear. Charles is quiet but for the occasional humming, clearing of his throat, opening of a plastic cap. But it doesn't sate him, so he puffs his chest out high and shouts over the sound of the shower, 

 

"I love you." 

 

There's a breathy silence before Charles, stuck between laughing and crying, shouts it back, "I love you too." 

 

And that, he thinks, is where the give and take becomes all about love.  

 

 


End file.
